by Ed James
‘Stay where you are!’ Foreign accents. Eastern, maybe Russian. Could be Israeli.
‘No further movement!’ Another voice, definitely Israeli.
Meant they were pros. Israeli Defence Force. Shit.
Maybe waiting for the ARU was the best plan after all . . .
Sod it. I haven’t got the time.
Fenchurch sucked in breath and squeezed round the door, pushing back against the wall.
In the room, a head bobbed up behind a leather sofa. The shooter pointed his pistol straight at him. ‘Stay there.’
On the sofa, a male officer lay back, a tight grip on his thigh, teeth clenched. Blood was dripping onto the cream carpet, clumping like spilled red wine.
Shit.
Another few steps forward and Fenchurch was by the open entrance. The gun was still aimed at the injured officer on the sofa and his colleague hiding behind.
Fenchurch licked at his dry lips and raised up his baton. Here we go. He slashed out with the weapon, cracking it off the gunman’s wrist. The pistol fell to the floor, thunking off the carpet.
Fenchurch swiped his baton again, his right hand cradling his left wrist. He cracked the gunman in the throat and sent him flying backwards. Then he dived low and grabbed the pistol.
BANG.
The carpet next to him exploded. The second shooter was on him, his baggy beige suit smeared with blood, gun pointed at Fenchurch.
Fenchurch aimed the weapon at him. ‘Stop! You are surrounded!’
The gunman took one look out of the front of the house and tossed the pistol. He put his hands behind his head and went down on both knees, like he’d done this many, many times before.
Fenchurch got up slowly and waved into the corridor, beckoning Reed along.
The officer behind the sofa burst out and patted his fallen comrade on the chest, then the cheek. ‘Come on, Keith, mate . . .’
Fenchurch darted over to beige suit and kicked his gun away. He pinned him down with his baton. ‘How many more are there?’
‘Just us.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not! It’s just us!’
The room was bigger than Fenchurch’s flat. Bigger than both his and Abi’s and the rental job out in the Isle of Dogs. A grand piano sat in the corner, opposite a pair of heavy oak bookcases, holding first-edition copies of the Bible, by the look of things. The back garden was empty, just a sprawling lawn. ‘Where is Ingham?’
‘He’s left.’
Fenchurch slapped his cuffs on beige suit’s wrists and rolled him onto his back. Leave him there. He sucked in breath. ‘Where the bloody hell is he? Where’s my wife?’
‘I’m not speaking.’
Nelson burst into the room, Airwave to his lips. ‘—urgent attention. Repeat: urgent attention.’
Fenchurch’s Airwave crackled. Reed. ‘Guv, you might want to have a look at this. Out the back.’
Fenchurch stormed down the hall into the entranceway. The back door led out across the garden. He trotted over to it and scanned around.
Reed was over to the right, by a small courtyard of outbuildings. She beckoned Fenchurch over. ‘Guv.’ One of the doors was wide open. ‘None of our lot have been in there. There’s a staircase, guv. And an old one at that.’
Fenchurch raised up his baton. ‘We should really wait for the ARU, Kay. These lot are pros. We don’t know how many are down there.’
Reed reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a black Glock, barely glinting in the light. ‘This do?’
‘Jesus, Kay. Where did you get that?’
‘I signed it out, guv.’ She slid a bullet into the chamber. ‘After what happened on Middlesex Street, I’m taking no chances.’
‘You should’ve bloody said . . .’ Fenchurch’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness. ‘Right, well, let’s be careful, okay?’
Nelson was in the living-room window, looking out. Fenchurch pointed at the building, making it clear they were heading in. Nelson gave a thumbs-up and turned away.
Reed sucked in a deep breath and entered the staircase, aiming the weapon at the ground. One short step, then another, then she waved Fenchurch in.
He followed her down. The stairs led deep, probably under the house, worn into a groove by thousands of footsteps. Fenchurch stepped out into a vaulted area.
Metal pressed into his temple. ‘Stop right there.’ A shaft of light caught Ogden, his face as tight as it could get.
Another gunman was pointing a pistol at Reed’s head, his face shrouded in darkness. ‘You too, princess.’
Reed palmed her pistol, sticking the barrel up her sleeve.
Fenchurch dropped his baton and raised his hands. ‘You’re surrounded.’
Ogden pushed the barrel into Fenchurch’s skin. ‘Well, we’ve got two hostages who can help us get away.’
‘There are thirty officers up there.’ Fenchurch ran his foot over the baton and kept it where he wanted it. ‘An Armed Response Unit, too. You’re not getting away.’
‘We are, and you are our insurance policy.’ Ogden prodded the barrel into his neck.
Fenchurch stayed calm despite the blood thundering in his ears. ‘Where’s my wife?’
‘Interesting question.’ The second figure stepped out of the shadows. Lord Ingham, his face even more toad-like in the dim light. ‘Now we have you, we can dispense with her.’
‘Where is she?!’ Fenchurch’s voice cannoned around the space, echoing like it was an ancient monastery. ‘Abi!?’
A whimper came from somewhere nearby.
‘Abi, it’s going to be—’
The barrel cracked into his forehead and Fenchurch stumbled forward, his knees cracking off stone. ‘Shit.’ The pistol dug into the back of his skull. ‘You’re not getting out of here.’
Fenchurch rested on all fours and snarled up at Ogden. ‘I know what you’ve been doing. The pair of you. Kidnapping children. Raping them. Disposing of them. We know all about Fresh Start.’
‘What?’ Ingham’s voice.
‘You’re surprised? You stupid bastard. You took—’
A boot between his shoulder blades pushed Fenchurch over, the flagstone scraping his cheek. ‘You took my daughter. You killed her!’
‘And now I’ll kill you.’ The gun pressed into his crown. ‘Or shall we kill Mrs Fenchurch first?’
Fenchurch reached over to the left, his fingers scrabbling over the rough stone. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Because we could.’ Why not just bloody shoot? ‘Because nobody could stop us.’
Cold metal. The baton . . . Fenchurch curled his fingers around it. Only got one go at this.
‘Get up.’
‘Shoot me now.’
‘You’re not listening to us, are you?’ The gun pulled back, breaking skin contact. ‘You’re our insurance policy. Two serving officers make for a much better route out of here than a pregnant teacher.’
‘What?’
‘We know all about Mrs Fenchurch.’ Fingers gripped his jacket and hoisted him up. ‘Now get up!’
Fenchurch pushed himself up with his right hand, careful to keep the baton within arm’s reach.
Ogden’s teeth caught in the light, betraying his smile. ‘Gilbert, let’s get—’
Fenchurch swung out with the baton, aiming for the glint. CRACK. And again. THUD.
‘My teese!’ The gun clattered onto the floor.
BANG.
A gunshot whizzed through the air, just missing Fenchurch. The flash lit up Ingham’s tweeds as he chambered another round.
Fenchurch lashed out with his baton, the metal rattling as it hit the pistol. He didn’t stop, just stepped forward again, swiping the baton, crunching into Ingham’s arms. Then lower, battering his legs, his torso. He pushed him over and kicked out. Cracking his kneecap, smashing his thighs, pounding into his balls. ‘You killed my daughter! You killed my daughter!’ Boot, boot, boot. Swipe, splat. Boot. Swipe, splat.
‘Guv!’ Reed grabbed his ar
ms and jerked him backwards. ‘Stop!’
Fenchurch hefted the baton up again, then stared at the floor. ‘Right.’
Reed’s grip slackened off. A muffled sound came from behind them.
Fenchurch got his phone out of his pocket and fumbled on the torch. Blinding light shot out, bouncing off ancient stone walls. In the corner, Abi lay in a ball, tied up and gagged. ‘Jesus . . .’
Reed got out her Airwave. ‘Need urgent assistance now!’
Fenchurch stomped over and tore off the gag.
She gasped out a breath. ‘Simon!’
‘It’s okay, love. You’re safe.’ Fenchurch crouched down to tug at the rope binding her wrists then her legs. Her grey T-shirt was stained red. Drums thudded in his ears. ‘What did they do to you?’
‘Simon, I’m okay.’
‘The baby . . .’ Fenchurch darted back over to Ingham, who was coughing in the middle of the chamber. ‘You filthy animal!’ He thwacked him on the back with the baton. Again. And again.
Arms wrapped around him from behind, perfumed air floating over him like he was back in the tropical forest. ‘Stop . . .’ Abi, kissing his neck. ‘Simon, you need to stop!’
The baton clattered to the ground. Fenchurch grabbed Abi in his arms and pulled her tight. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
‘Simon . . .’ She hugged him tighter. ‘They were going to run away with new IDs. They were going to take me with them, in case . . . In case.’
‘Shh. It’s over, love.’ Fenchurch kissed her on the top of her head. ‘The only place they’re running is away from bigger rapists in the prison shower.’
Chapter Forty-One
Fenchurch stood in the hot sun that was burning off the Sunday rain clouds, the breeze whipping the trees.
A paramedic was trying to help Abi into the back of the ambulance. ‘I can bloody walk.’ She slapped the male paramedic’s hand and stepped into the ambulance, both hands covering her belly.
Fenchurch grabbed the paramedic’s arm and stopped him going. ‘Is she going to be okay?’
‘Initial analysis is yes.’ He folded up a gurney, the mechanism rattling. ‘Trouble is, I’m a jack of all trades, so I need a master to give her the once over.’
‘I need a minute with her.’
‘That’s the limit, okay?’ Snap, crunk, and the gurney was flat. ‘You’re welcome to ride with us.’ He hefted it up into the ambulance. ‘I’m taking her to University College.’
‘Seem to be spending half of my life there.’ Fenchurch pulled himself up into the ambulance. ‘Hey.’
Abi was sitting on the bed, feet kinked together. ‘Simon.’ She tried a smile but it slipped away. ‘Will you get them for me?’
‘Don’t worry on that score. I’ll smash them into little pieces.’
She stroked his arm as he sat next to her. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
Fenchurch hugged her tight. ‘Did you see who took you?’
‘No.’
‘Was it Ogden?’
‘No, it was a big guy.’ She sighed. ‘Looked like he’d been in the army.’
‘You didn’t see his face?’
‘I don’t know what happened.’ Abi rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Someone came in when I was in the shower. I thought it was you, forgetting your phone again. I had shampoo in my hair and I couldn’t see. They pulled the cubicle open and grabbed me.’
‘Jesus . . . I got back with coffee and pastries and they knocked me out.’ Fenchurch showed her the cuts on his head.
She kissed his forehead, right over the plaster. ‘Simon, this isn’t your fault.’
‘I’m doing this for Chloe.’ The ambulance started up, vibrating through the floor. ‘I need to see what’s going on.’ Fenchurch got up and kissed her. ‘I’ll join you soon.’
‘Simon . . .’
‘I’ll be an hour at most.’ Fenchurch jumped down and waved the ambulance off. It trundled down the lane, a blast of siren clearing a clump of uniformed officers chatting by the entrance.
‘How’s Abi?’ Reed, brandishing her Airwave.
‘I almost lost her, Kay.’
‘You didn’t, guv.’ She brushed a hand down his arm. ‘You saved her.’
‘We did. Us storming in there like Butch and Sundance . . .’ Fenchurch bit at his lip, drawing blood. ‘They had guns pointed at us. The pair of them. We shouldn’t have gone down there.’
‘What if we hadn’t?’
‘You’re right.’ A van spewed out another load of officers.
‘—and I want three guards on those pricks at all times.’ Docherty burst through the wall of uniforms, face like he was going to murder someone. ‘That’s three guards each. No questions, okay?’
Mulholland was following, her scarf trailing along the ground. ‘Sir.’
Docherty stopped to scowl at Fenchurch. ‘I thought you’d be heading up to the hospital with Abi?’
Fenchurch glanced at Reed. ‘Boss, I need to see those two scumbags taken down for this.’
‘After you smashed the shite out of Ingham? No chance that’s happening.’
‘He had a gun on me, boss.’
‘Aye, and you took it off him and his mate, then decided to go all medieval on him. Christ, I’ve seen better depictions of the plague than how he looks right now.’
‘I want to interview them.’
Docherty picked at his teeth, screwing his face up tight. ‘You can watch.’
Didn’t know how bloody hungry I was . . .
Fenchurch walked along the Leman Street corridor, couldn’t eat the burrito quickly enough. A quick drive-by job, not enough time to customise it properly. He bit another mouthful, then pulled the foil over, pretty much exactly halfway.
He entered the Observation Suite and blanked Mulholland as he perched next to her. On the screen, Nelson sat in the interview room with Ogden and a heavy man in a suit, his white hair plastered with sweat. ‘Who’s the lawyer?’
‘Simon, I am genuinely sorry about what happened.’ Mulholland’s scarf flashed over like a flapping crow as she tied it back. ‘I know we don’t see eye to eye a lot of the time, but this is truly horrible. I can’t even—’
‘Who’s the lawyer?’ Fenchurch put the half-burrito down and waved a hand at the monitor.
Mulholland’s lips twitched between pursed and a smile. ‘Brian Makepeace, the other name partner in Ogden’s firm.’
‘They’re a City firm.’ Fenchurch frowned. ‘That’s all contract law and the dark arts of international law. Why’s he defending him?’
‘Before they started the firm, he had a background in criminal defence.’
‘He must be very rusty.’
‘Simon . . .’ She smiled at him, her forehead creasing. ‘I can’t imagine what you must be going through.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ Still not looking at her.
On-screen, Nelson passed a sheet across the desk. ‘Care to comment on this, sir?’
‘No comment.’ Ogden rubbed at his teeth, eyes screwed shut. ‘I really need to see a dentist.’
Mulholland waved a hand at the monitor. ‘Rusty or not, he’s got Ogden well drilled. It’s been like this all the way through.’
The door thudded open and Docherty stormed in, one hand in his pocket. ‘Si . . . How’s this going?’
Mulholland took off her scarf and started bunching it up, but it looked like it would take longer than forever. ‘It’s . . . well, it’s going nowhere. And not particularly quickly, either.’
‘Any sign Makepeace is involved or knows about what Ogden’s . . . been up to?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
Another screen flashed into action. The door opened and Martin led Ingham in. Looked like he’d been through a combine harvester backwards. His toad eyes were both swollen, his nose a black-and-red mess, blood spilling down his shirt, crusted around his cheeks. He spoke, but the speakers were muted.
‘Righty-ho.’ Docherty opened the door again. ‘I’d better find Savage.’
Fenchurch grabbed Docherty’s arm. ‘Boss.’ He glanced over at Mulholland. ‘I want to speak to Ingham.’
‘This is my case.’ Docherty stabbed a finger into his own chest, a wad of spit dribbling down his chin. ‘Howard and I are interviewing him. You’re keeping out. End of.’
The door slammed in Fenchurch’s face. Bloody, bloody hell.
‘Simon . . .’
Fenchurch ignored Mulholland as he sat back down. Blood burning in his veins. Drums pounding in his ears.
Sitting here, watching those idiots make a dog’s breakfast of the interview.
Maybe I should be with Abi right now.
Fenchurch risked a look at Mulholland. She had to be here to witness it. She had to watch the moment of bitter defeat, abject humiliation, something she’d savour for a long time.
The trees in the park rustled around them. Chloe nibbled at the wine gum, biting away at the rhombus bit by bit until she was halfway. ‘How’s your sweetie, Daddy?’
Fenchurch leaned back on the bench and chewed at his own wine gum. ‘It’s good.’
‘Granny says hi.’
Fenchurch brushed a tear from his eye, then ruffled Chloe’s hair. ‘Your mother’s in hospital now and they’re fixing her up.’
‘What was wrong with her?’ Just a little red triangle left now.
‘Some bad men took her from me, sweetheart. I got them.’
‘Is it the same bad men who took me, Daddy?’
Fenchurch nodded as he swallowed the sweet, the bloody thing catching in his throat. He coughed it down. ‘Same men.’
‘And are you going to get them for me, Daddy?’
‘I’ve been told to . . .’
‘Daddy, they took me.’ Chloe nestled in close. ‘Are you saying Doc and Savage can do your job better than you?’
‘Simon . . .’
‘Chloe . . .’
‘Daddy, they killed me.’ Chloe pouted up at him, angel eyes dazzling in the light. ‘Why don’t you kill them?’
‘Simon . . .’
Fenchurch jerked awake. He looked around the room, his eyes thick and heavy. He yawned, felt like he’d never stop. ‘Sorry, I must’ve drifted off.’
‘You were snoring.’
‘Sorry.’ Fenchurch brushed away the sleep from his eyes and focused on the monitor. Ingham was on his own on the opposite side of the table. ‘He’s not got a lawyer?’